The musings of a traveling man

Twitter is giving 2016 a harsh goodbye. Facebook, too. Everywhere I look, the brokenhearted are eager to rip December out of their virtual calendar and start anew.

I understand. This will not go down as one of my favorite years. 2016 is the multi-car pile up that ruins a trip to the beach. I survived with a badly damaged hood, scrapes along the front panel, dragging my back bumper toward 2017. At least I have insurance that come in the form of loving friends and family. I’m going to have to change four flat tires and rebuild my engine before I can finish that trip to the beach, but I’ll make it. There is sunlight at the edge of darkness.

It’s not really 2016’s fault. The year itself didn’t participate in vitriolic political debates, didn’t end the life of a single celebrity, nor did it take part in any of the mass shootings around the world. 2016 arrived like a fresh set of downs for a struggling offense. It offered optimism, hope, another chance. It’s crazy to think an altered number on our daily planner will erase our problems, but there’s a feeling that comes with the segue from December to January. It’s almost like the champagne and fireworks are delivered with a reset button. Push it, and life is good again.

I had that kind of optimism when 2016 awoke.

The first part of the year was pure bliss. My daughter was married in March. I danced on clouds, breathing thin air, as lightheaded as a circus balloon. Unfortunately, when the clouds began to dissipate, I didn’t have the legs to provide a solid landing.

Heartbreak came in waves.

There was the car wreck that ended a young life, a member of our church youth group, a friend of our daughter, the child of my own friends.

There is the tragedy and confusion that descended on other dear friends as harmful influences imbedded its toxic fangs in their son.

The brother of a young girl I’d mentored at church died in a motorcycle accident.

More recently, we received news that my sister’s latest cancer treatment has failed, dragging her back to the cruelty of chemotherapy as the tumors on her liver spread.

With all of that hanging over me, I wasn’t prepared for the sucker punch, delivered beneath my appendix scar, that sparked a series of confusing events that are too personal and painful to detail here. It sent me spiraling into the depths of uncertainty and depression. For days, I walked around in an Alaska winter, with moments of light covered by immense darkness.

I’m doing my best to focus on that light.

It would be foolish of me to sit in a dark corner and sulk. That would mean ignoring all of the bright, beautiful blessings that rained down upon me in 2016. It would mean turning my back on a God who is always there, holding a lantern to guide me away from gloom and misery. It would mean licking my wounds while friends and family who have faced far greater challenges over the past year stand strong. For my sister Nancy, 2016 was the pitbull that grabbed her in its powerful jaws and shook her like a stuffed toy. The cancer marches through her body, leaving painful footprints. The treatments leave her weak and disappointed. And yet, she finds the strength to smile. The harder cancer works to extinguish her light, the more Nancy shines.

How can I let my stupid little pitiful problems drag me down when I see perseverance like that?

Nothing grows well in darkness except anger and resentment. With the help of God’s light, I can see my way toward forgiveness. If I can’t heal and forgive, then I can’t expect others to forgive me for my indiscretions.

If I can’t move on from my own petty problems, I can’t be there for the people who need my love and support through their more significant struggles.

Rather than looking upon the negatives of 2016, perhaps I should be thankful for the opportunities to love, comfort, forgive, to mature and grow closer to a God who dearly wants me strong and happy.

2016, you are forgiven.

In fact, thank you. Thank you for shining a bright light on the many blessings that trump any of my difficulties, for encouraging me to tend to the needs of others, and for forcing me to realize God must come first, ahead of my own selfish desires. I can’t thank you for the difficulties you imposed on my friends and family, for they continue to struggle. But I can thank you for opening my eyes to the absolute need to focus on them, not me.

Ten times, I’ve entered a voting booth with the hopes of sending the candidate of my choice to the White House. More often than not, the candidate I picked was not elected. The following day, the sun arrived in the east. My family still loved me. The earth failed to crack open and swallow our nation whole.

Life goes on.

Our nation has survived a political season like none I’ve ever seen. I say we’ve survived, and yet there are some people who behave as if Thomas Jefferson just ran over their puppy. Following a presidential race that resembled a reality show, I suppose it should come as no surprise that:

College students are walking out of class in protest, too distraught and disillusioned to focus on their studies.

Protesters have taken to the streets in anger, as if Donald Trump might find out and decide he doesn’t want to be president after all.

High school students have been the targets of threats and insults because, well, because the bullies feel the election results give them the right to do so.

I’m 57-years-old. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I understand why a certain portion of our voting population didn’t want Donald Trump to be president. President-elect Trump has a way of stirring emotions like no one I’ve ever witnessed. Those who like him really, really like him. Those who find him distasteful really, really don’t like him. Sometimes, he’s like the sandspur that catches you right on your bare arch. (For those of you who don’t know what a sandspur is, I grew up in Florida where they are abundant. They’re painful little suckers, in the same category as the mosquito and horsefly.) There are Americans who find his frank talk endearing. There are others who want to remove his oddly colored hairpiece and jam it down his throat.

What? That’s not a hairpiece?

Whatever your opinion of Donald Trump the candidate, let’s face it. That ship (or in Trump’s case, that yacht), has sailed. He won. From this day forward, we should base our views of Trump on his actions as president.

And he hasn’t served a single day yet.

Jimmy Carter, man of peace, after months of blasting Trump for his “lack of moral and ethical principals,” said our nation’s 45th president needs America’s “support and prayers as he prepares to take office.”

Hillary Clinton, who Trump called “Corrupt Hillary” during the campaign, offered to work with Trump.

“Donald Trump is going to be our president,” she said during her concession speech. “We owe him an open mind and a chance to lead.”

And listen to this.

“I hope that he will be a successful president for all Americans.”

Remember when Barack Obama was elected president back in 2008, and the conservative pundits who wanted him to fail? I remember it. I remember it distinctly. I also remember thinking that no matter your political slant, you should never wish for our country’s leader to fail. Failure inside the White House risks the collapse of the entire country.

I pray that Donald Trump, as I pray that anyone who is elected to the presidency, will remember that he was elected to serve this country. I pray that he will serve us honorably, and that he will succeed in hearing our voices and doing what’s best for all of America.

Trump himself said, “It’s time for us to come together as one united people.”

Put aside your resentment. Forget that you didn’t get your way. Hillary Clinton managed to do it. Don’t wish ill upon this man. He’s our country’s leader. He needs us. He works for us. If he doesn’t listen, he’ll have to answer to us in four years.

I have faith. Remember, Donald Trump belittled my profession. He chided reporters who dared challenge his words and his views, often with great vitriol. He’s threatened to make it easier to sue members of the fourth estate. I have faith in America. I have faith in our system, in our Constitution, and in the checks and balances that have survived more than 200 years.

Most of all, I have faith in God, who teaches us love, patience, tolerance, and acceptance of all people. I have faith in Jesus, who came to this earth to teach us to look beyond political leaders, to a power much, much higher.

Ultimately, God is still in charge.

As I write this, there is a Bald Eagle stuck in a storm drain in Orlando, Florida. As rescuers work to save him, another Bald Eagle is there, protecting his feathered brother.

On a rural Georgia road, covered by nightfall, comes a powerful beam of light that cuts through the darkness of hatred and misunderstanding.

A Heard County Sheriff’s Deputy was doing his job when he observed a young man ignoring a stop sign. In law enforcement, there’s no such thing as routine. An innocuous traffic violation performed by the wrong person, at the wrong time, in the wrong place, can cause a situation to go south in a real hurry. The deputy in this situation didn’t know if the driver he stopped was an innocent teenager who wasn’t paying attention, or an escaped convict with a taste for blood. The deputy stepped forward with his hand on his service pistol, completely unaware that he was moving toward an encounter that just might change his life forever.

Consider, for a moment, the current state of affairs for anyone wearing a badge. Officers in Dallas and Baton Rouge are dead because of the anger over shootings that had nothing to do with them. Some people, not all, but some have indicted an entire profession because of the actions of a few. It’s not fair. It’s like destroying an entire orchard because of the worms found in two apples. It is but another example of hatred run amok. Nothing good comes of hate.

That Heard County Deputy had no way of knowing if he would be the next target.

Then it happened. Another car arrived. Two people got out and walked toward the deputy. He tensed.

“I immediately start running situations through my head, and praying for the best,” the deputy wrote on his Facebook page. “I’m nervous, and praying to God that nothing is going to happen.”

One of the people approaching the deputy identified himself of the father the young man the deputy had stopped. Papa Bear had arrived to protect Baby Bear, always a potentially volatile situation.

“That’s my boy,” he told the deputy. “I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

The deputy calmly informed the man that his son was going to get a warning for running the stop sign. What happened next came straight from all that is pure and good.

The man went on to tell the deputy that he was on his way to the hospital to visit his father, who had just suffered a stroke. Then he reached for the deputy’s hand.

“Do you have a minute? I’d just like to say a word of prayer.”

Right there, on the side of that dark Heard County road, a man whose father had just suffered a stroke stopped to offer compassion to a complete stranger, to a deputy who’d just interrupted his trip to visit a loved one.

“Lord, keep this man and his fellow officers safe as they’re out here trying to keep us safe,” the man prayed, all of it captured on the deputy’s dashboard camera.

The prayer ended with a hug.

“As he prayed for me and my brothers in blue, my eyes filled with tears,” the deputy wrote. “This man, with all he had going on, stopped to pray for me. As I walked away, I was in total shock.”

Think of that. The deputy was in shock that someone would pause to express appreciation for his commitment to protecting others.

Every day, hundreds of thousands of law enforcement officers leave their homes for a day’s work, unsure if they’ll make it back to their families. They’re sassed, disrespected, and cussed for doing their job. They’re not perfect. None of us are. There are a few who have allowed the power of the badge go to their heads, resulting in horrible decisions. But the overwhelming majority of officers I’ve known are good people with a genuine heart for protecting the rest of us. Still, it’s a job where they’re more likely to hear a threat than a thank you.

This doesn’t have to be about law enforcement officers. It doesn’t necessarily have to be about prayer. It’s about bringing peace to a troubled world. It’s about lifting your neighbor when they’re down.

Imagine you work for a business that’s struggling. You’ve said goodbye to co-workers forced out by layoffs. You have no idea if the next pink slip is bound for your in-box. You’re on a sales call, stressed over the added pressure, when a customer, a total stranger, offers you comfort and understanding. It might not erase all of your woes, but the pressure might not seem as overwhelming. Your outlook might not appear quite so dark.

Despite all of the marches, the protests, the pain, and the doubt, that officer in Heard County now knows at least one man cares.

I understand. Once a week, it seems, we wake to the news crawl at the bottom of our television screens telling us of 80 dead here, 49 killed there, a terrorist attack in France, gunfire in Orlando.

FBI crime statistics argue against our fear. Violent crime in the U.S. is down. In fact, there has been a steady drop in the number of murders, rapes, robberies and assaults since 1995. But we don’t meet statistics while walking down the street. Instead, we confront our impressions about a world that seems to have gone haywire.

There is nothing wrong with a little fear. Fear makes us cautious. Allowed to evolve into awareness, fear can become a means of protection.

It’s when we allow fear to transform into hatred that we run into problems.

A little hate can poison an entire nation. It clouds your focus, burns you alive and encourages others to hate you right back. Hate accomplishes nothing except to beget more hate.

Think of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who woke up each morning to a frightening world. He walked in a time and place that despised him for a hue that was not of his choosing. Surely, he had to harbor some hatred for the small-minded bigots who considered themselves superior. Somehow, he molded those volatile emotions into a movement of peace.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that,” he once said. “Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.”

Fire hoses turned on his brothers. The gnashing teeth of police dogs nipping at his throat. Threats that culminated in his death. The world encouraged Dr. King to return hate with hate, but he and his followers refused. They had to be scared as they marched down streets lined with those who wanted to lynch them. While trembling inside, they encouraged the world to dream of a day full of understanding, a day without fear.

Today’s fear is focused on extremists. The natural inclination is to hate ISIS, to hate the ideologues who think with a gun rather than with compassion. Dr. King, you’re thinking, didn’t have to deal with radical Islamists.

No, but he did have to deal with incredible injustice. He had to go face-to-face with the KKK, with sheriffs and police chiefs and mayors who wore robes after hours. He hated their ideology. He must have. I’m sure he was afraid. But he never acted out of hate.

“Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred,” Dr. King warned us.

As I struggle to find the words to express my own fear of a world ruled by hate, I keep turning to Dr. King and the teachings of those who followed them. Their words are written on my heart. Among the men of that era I admire most is Ambassador Andrew Young, who is still calling for peace in our current time of turmoil.

“I don’t think I’ve sensed as much confusion among the American people in my lifetime since the bombing of Pearl Harbor,” Ambassador Young said recently, speaking of the recent police involved shootings and the protests that followed. “There’s so much bombarding us, we’re scared of the world.

“Violence grows out of frustration and emotion, leading to unintended destruction of life and property,” Ambassador Young goes on. “After it’s over, everyone is sorry.”

Easy for me to adopt this attitude. I’m not a victim of discrimination. I don’t have to deal with the growing threat of radical extremists. I do fear, however. I fear the day when hate compounds hate until it overshadows the brave men who encouraged us to dream. I’m afraid we’re on the verge of forgetting the words of those who have walked through darkness and used peace as their illumination.

Their words, their actions, can light our path through this frightening time.

In the face of the violence and discord that currently plagues our country, the state senator from South Carolina has suggested that, more than likely, members of the media are our nation’s biggest problem. People in my line of work, in Sen. Shealy’s own words, sensationalize everything. We stir the pot. We fuel a blazing fire. Silencing us for a month, she believes, might make our world a better place.

On Facebook, her supporters have referred to news reporters as “the enemy.”

I have to wonder if Sen. Shealy actually knows anyone involved in the media. I’m not talking about knowing them on a working level. I wonder if she’s familiar with the true heart and motivation of anyone who works in my business.

Sen. Shealy, let me introduce myself.

My name is Jerry Carnes. I’ve been a news reporter for more than thirty years. I am a child of the south, raised by Southern Baptists who taught me to work hard, love God, and to respect others. My father grew up in poverty, but worked hard to become an Olympic track coach. My mother had to overcome the scars of abandonment inflicted by a rather cruel father. She is the single strongest woman I’ve ever known.

Most of all, my parents taught me about humility. It is why I lean heavily on the words of the Apostle Paul:

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility, consider others better than yourself.

I have witnessed more than most people ever should. I saw a man die in the electric chair. I arrived too early to a crime scene to find an infant lying in the street, shot to death by her own father. These are images that stay with you for a lifetime.

I know grief. I lost my father to cancer in 2011. It is a loss that has left a giant crater in my heart. I lost a cousin to the war in Iraq. This year alone, my church youth group has lost two of its members to tragedy. These are tender young lives who once called me their Sunday school teacher. I went on mission trips with them. Time and time again, my heart breaks.

It has made me more sympathetic to the pain of others. Over the past thirty years, I’ve talked to scores of people who have suffered from senseless tragedy. I’ve served as both reporter and counselor. There have been many times when the talking has gone on long after the camera was turned off. I do all I can do to lighten their burden rather than add to it. For thirty years, I’ve carried home the weight of second hand grief. It is the strength of God that keeps that weight from crushing me.

I am a natural born storyteller. That’s why I got into the business. Reporting has given me opportunities to shed light on wrongdoing, to give a voice to the voiceless. My favorite moments, however, have come when allowed to share stories of human triumph. I will never forget the uplifting bond created between a young lady who survived a plane crash, and the elderly couple who ran to her aid. The couple lived near the Carroll County cornfield where the plane erupted into a ball of fire. I met them at the hospital, where they remained at the young girl’s bedside until she’d healed enough to return home. By then, they were practically family. Out of incredible tragedy, love and compassion appeared. Good came from bad.

My years in television news have taught me that, at times, the presence of a camera can add to hostility or pain. As a veteran, I’ve learned to recognize the need to shed light on a moment, and the need to go dark.

Violence, hatred, and prejudice of any kind breaks my heart. I mourn often. I’ve mourned more this year, it seems, than ever before. I weep when I see our country torn apart in disagreement over how to end the rash of hatred. When others hurt, I hurt. I also have faith that we will rise again, stronger than ever.

I have been married for 31 years. My wife is an artist who runs her own business from our home. We have three children. Our oldest is married. He works for a non-profit and volunteers as the social media director of his church. Our middle child is a nurse. She is also married. Her husband works as an audio engineer for a church in Charlotte. Our youngest is about to leave home for college, where she plans to prepare for a career as a special education teacher. I’m immensely proud of them all.

Sen. Shealy, I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes during my long career in this business, and I beg your forgiveness. Working as a news reporter carries with it incredible responsibility. I know there have been times when I’ve taken that responsibility too lightly. I’m human, and that’s my point here. When you refer to the “media,” you’re not talking about a giant ogre that needs to be slain. We are individuals. Each and every one of us has a heart that has been molded by individual experiences. Each of us has our own faults and stumbles. Each of us, as individuals, deal with our own failures.

Now that you know something about me, I hope you’ll see that I would never intentionally sensationalize anything, or purposely throw fuel on a fire. Compassion is a driving force behind my work, which is why I devote so many hours warning others about the risks of prostate cancer. It’s the disease that took my father. Oh, I am not remarkable, by the way. Not by any means. There are plenty of reporters who have seen more than me, endured much worse, and learned a lot more. There are journalists who are much smarter and far more compassionate. I can introduce you to some reporters who would really impress you with the many ways that they’ve bettered the world. If you got to know them, you wouldn’t want to silence them for a half-second, much less a month.

I can get better at what I do. No question about it. We can all do better. But I think it would be a huge mistake to silence us. Yes, we do sometimes throw light on issues that make us uncomfortable. Extinguishing that light, even for a month, would leave us all in the dark. With all respect, I pray that you would consider that.

Like the warm good-bye hug from a child when they leave for camp. You can still feel it even when they’re gone. You know the love is still there. It’s a part of you, even as it moves miles and miles from home.

Unity. Compassion. It’s there. I can feel it, even when it’s hidden behind a cloud of anger and blame.

Remember 911, when we were all New Yorkers? Sandy Hook? Boston strong? Do you remember how our hearts broke for Paris, and just like that, we were one with France?

I remember.

Now, in the wake of the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history, there has been enough finger pointing that it seems our country could use one giant manicure. Political debate has, too often, pushed caring and unity into the backseat.

And then, as mourners gathered in Atlanta to honor the victims in Orlando, I heard them sing:

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining,

I believe in love even when I don’t feel it.

I believe in this country, even when we’re divided. So often, I’ve seen us come together, united in our hurt, in our resolve, in our purpose. When others lash out at us, we put party affiliations and petty differences aside to bond. I’ve seen it happen.

I believe.

We are the United States of America, not the Fractured States of America.

Giving up would cost me everything

So, I’ll stand in the pain and silence

And I’ll speak to the dark night.

I remember when it was my city under attack by a crazy man who marred what was an otherwise magical Olympic games. It was Atlanta’s time in the world spotlight, and Eric Rudolph brought his darkness. I remember taking it personally. It hurt, deep down, every time he placed one of his bombs in a different spot around our town. In those days, we weren’t subject to the long-time listeners, first-time callers with opinions of who failed to do what to prevent the madness. The world stood with us, denouncing the terror, urging Atlanta to heal.

It’s only logical that we want to understand the motivations behind these savage acts of terrorism. But comprehending the act means unraveling a tightly twisted mind. I was close enough to one of Eric Rudolph’s bombs that the FBI regarded me as a victim. I sat just an arm’s length from him inside a Birmingham courtroom. So close, and yet a billion miles away. I read the letters from his fictional Army of God. He justified his actions to the court by speaking of the British crown, the Pharisaical sect, by calling the Olympics a celebration of global socialism, and revealing that his goal was to “drag this monstrosity of a government down into the dust.” Read it all a thousand times. It will make sense to Eric Rudolph, and Eric Rudolph alone. Given the opportunity to question the Orlando killer, I suspect the explanation would be equally baffling. We won’t get that chance. He’s answering to a higher power.

No dark can consume light,

No death greater than this life,

We are not forgotten.

I believe in the compassion of this country, even as it waits its turn behind the heat of a political season. There is a time and place to discuss the difficult issues swirling around the latest act of incomprehensible violence. We can have those talks remembering that WE are not the enemy. We are the UNITED States of America. Together we stand. Divided, we fall to those who wish to harm us.

I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining,

I believe in love even when I don’t feel it,

And I believe in God even when He is silent.

Maybe it’s time we are silent for a moment, silent as a country, so that God can speak. Let’s be silent for a moment and breathe, giving the families and friends of the lost room to cry. Perhaps if our hands weren’t shaped around our opinions like bullhorns, it would free us to wrap our arms around one another, and unite.

It’s baloney. Bad news comes in threes, or nines, or nineteens, or fifty-sixes. It comes whenever and however it wants. It can be unrelenting. It can be overwhelming. It can cover you in a dark shadow surrounded by fear.

This was supposed to be a year of celebration for my family. A wedding in March, a high school graduation in May. Two of my children are writing new chapters, and I know I should focus on these wonderful blessings. But 2016 has decided to sprinkle my ice cream sundae with broken glass. It’s been delicious and painful. One day is soothing and sweet. The next day, I’m bleeding inside.

Life’s toxic temptations have spilled into my inner-circle. It has taken a relative I love dearly to the brink of death. It’s been going on quite a while, and I thought she was getting better. I was fooling myself. Instead, she’s found a new rock bottom. A major downturn happened the night of my daughter’s wedding, right under my nose, with me blissfully unaware. The peaks and valleys were blending together.

So my heart was already heavy when we lost Halle Scott, a member of my church youth group whose parents worship in my Sunday school class. It was jolting and tragic. Her loss had nothing to do with those toxic temptations, but was instead the result of an innocent adventure. It reminded us all that we do not know what will happen tomorrow. Love your children. Hug your wife. Love your neighbors. Put pettiness aside. Don’t put it off.

It would not be 2016’s last jolt to my church, to our youth group, to our Sunday school class. Far from it.

Those toxic temptations I spoke about have buried their teeth in the child of dear friends, also members of our Sunday school class. It has sent them spiraling into heartbreak, and when they hurt, I hurt. These people are like family to me. I consider their children to be my own. Their son is smart, talented, and full of potential. His future is now in serious jeopardy. His parents have raised him much they way I’ve raised my kids. The struggle they face could just as easily take place under my roof.

“Enough,” I told my wife and friends over dinner this past Saturday. “This year has been difficult enough. No more.”

Eight hours later, I would wake to another low blow.

While I slept, a young man I had not seen in two or three years took his last breath. I’d joined him and his sister on youth mission trips, but he’d stopped coming to church. His sister confided that he’d chosen a dangerous path, and I came to understand that those toxic temptations lured him there. On Saturday night, he was on the back of a motorcycle when a car veered in front of him. He was 17-years-old.

I hurt immensely for this family. The departure of this teenager leaves a mom who is legally blind, and a 19-year-old sister who has faced more challenges than some people do in a lifetime. She lost her father just five years ago, and I clearly remember her tearful struggle. It’s encouraging to see how much she’s grown since then. She’s handling the loss of her brother with incredible strength that is emboldened by the friends and church family that has surrounded her. She is not alone, and she knows it.

So much darkness in such a short period of time.

This past Sunday, as we gathered in that Sunday school class that’s been rocked by 2016, we looked to a Bible verse that speaks of darkness:

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. — Psalms 23

There is light in every situation. Somewhere. I’m trying to find it. I’m working hard not to miss those opportunities to comfort, support, and love. I’m afraid there have been opportunities that I’ve missed in the past. I’m more awake to them now.

I’m committed to taking every opportunity to provide appreciation, acknowledgement, compassion, and care.

I begin every morning letting God hear my voice. It’s 2 a.m., dark and quiet, no distractions. Most of the time, I’m throwing myself on the mercy of the court. I’ve spent too much time in anger, or resentment, or not enough time serving others. Many a morning, I end my prayer with a request.

On gritty Pleasantdale Road, one wish was granted.

It was a situation that could have easily guided me into a pothole of anger. I was supposed to meet a man to discuss his unpleasant ride on Pleasantdale. He was a no show. No phone call. No apology. Just me, my camera, and sweat rolling down my back as big rigs rambled by my toes.

Right in front of me, God cleared his throat.

My prayer request was for an opportunity to serve someone in need. That opportunity came in the form of a woman, her two children, and a car that decided it wanted nothing more to do with Atlanta traffic. She was from Gambia. Her English was as broken as the engine of her Honda. I had a difficult time understanding where she was from, and I never understood where she was trying to go. It was clear that her children, one of them an infant, were miserable and needed to get away from the sun. Her car blocked the I-85 ramp to Pleasantdale that filled with prickly commuters and their horns.

Part of my brain was occupied by the man who’d summoned me to Pleasantdale Road only to waste my time. After a failed effort to push the stubborn Honda off of the ramp, I tried to reach the man by phone to find out if perhaps I’d misunderstood the time of our meeting. No answer. No return call. There was no misunderstanding, only a gaping hole in my work load that I would have to scramble to fill. There was a moment of mild panic. My job was to produce news stories, and one had just slipped away.

Then I realized my time was not wasted at all. It simply had another purpose. After all, I’d asked for this.

The Bible says that God communicates not with an earthquake, or a fire, but with a gentle whisper. Just last week, the whisper came as I loitered beside my locked news vehicle with the keys in the ignition. That’s right. I locked the keys in the car, along with my phone. In an area of town teeming with homelessness and despair, all I could do was sit on my bumper and wait for a co-worker to arrive with a spare key. God’s whisper arrived first.

A young man with a backpack and distant eyes approached with a story about the neighborhood violence that had taken his sister. It seemed he just wanted to vent, and I let him. It was an opportunity to offer compassion to a stranger, one placed in my path because of keys dangling behind a locked door. After a few minutes, my new friend made a request.

“Hey, can I have a dollar?”

He specifically requested one dollar. Not two. Not five. One. It just so happened that the previous Sunday, our pastor had passed out crisp new one dollar bills to the entire congregation. We were sent forth with a mission of generosity, to find a way to use that dollar in an act of generosity.

Here was my opportunity.

I handed that young man the dollar and the story of it’s purpose. I told him God was watching over him. He accepted the gift with grace, but seemed doubtful that I’d given him anything more than just an ordinary piece of currency. God’s whisper told me something more.

On Pleasantdale Road, I struggled to help the family stranded by a faulty automobile. I summoned a police officer to help me push the woman’s car out of the road. I bought bottled water to keep the family cool, but my phone calls failed to summon the help they really needed. Eventually, the mom left to negotiate with a tow truck driver at a nearby gas station. I returned to my work day convinced I’d done all I could, but nagged by the feeling that it wasn’t enough.

In my line of work, it’s inevitable that you will confront tragedy. Grieving strangers suddenly aren’t strangers anymore. They pour out their hearts. You offer compassion and a sympathetic ear. Often, when I’m present, the interview ends with a hug. Some may see that as inappropriate, a violation of some journalistic canon. I don’t care. When I see suffering, I hug.

It’s not easy to walk away. You carry some of that second-hand grief home.

That’s the way it goes. Most of the time.

It’s not supposed to go like this.

At 2 a.m., as I was rising for another day of chasing news, a police officer was knocking at the front door of a friend’s house just a couple of miles away. A car crash was sending waves of sadness across my community, into my church, and deep into my heart. I didn’t learn for another five hours that I knew one of the victims. Word reached me as I was standing on the side of an Atlanta street, reporting on a series of car crashes impacting people I’d just met.

Halle Scott was 19-years-old. Her parents are in my Sunday school class. We’ve socialized together, worshiped together, prayed together. Hundreds of times, we’ve joined each other in prayer over others encountering hardship. It was only a few months ago that Halle attended a Sunday school class I helped teach for students home from college. My mind won’t let go of her peaceful face as I did my best to impart what little spiritual wisdom I possess.

After learning details of the crash, I tried to keep reporter Jerry separate from grieving Jerry. For a few hours, I struggled to focus on the remaining tasks of the day. Thankfully, my assignments did not involve coverage of the wreck that took Halle and three other University of Georgia students. That would have forced reporter Jerry and grieving Jerry to collide.

It’s not supposed to happen that way.

At noon, I was done with reporter Jerry. I broke away from work and headed to church. There, I found an entire room injured by the widespread shrapnel of grief. The entire building wept. I bowed. I asked God to bestow peace upon a family in desperate need of strength. I held my daughter’s hand and watched her weep. She and Halle were on the high school cheerleading squad together. Rachel was supposed to visit Halle in Athens on Saturday.

It’s my job to confront grief, not my daughter’s.

It’s not supposed to happen like this.

Life isn’t fair. Halle was a wonderful child of powerful faith. In the name of the Lord, she traveled to faraway places to worship and serve others less fortunate. She was bold in her faith, unafraid to let you know her devotion to God. Her parents are equally strong in their convictions, and I’m comforted in knowing they can lean on Christ. They have a Sunday school class, a church, an entire community for support. They have me, if they need me.

So many times, I’ve reported on tragic losses that just aren’t fair.

It’s never involved anyone I know.

The car wreck that has impacted an entire college campus and well beyond will be in the news for awhile. I can’t bring myself to watch the coverage. I’m a newsman who can’t watch the news. When I see pictures of Halle, I think of her mom, her dad, and her brother, and I have the same thoughts as parents across the entire state. That could have my my child. The next time, that police officer might not be two miles away. Is my faith strong enough?

As a news reporter, there really is no exit strategy when it comes to tragic events. At some point, you need to detach from the grief, but you can’t. It lingers, even when it isn’t yours. After a few years, it gets pretty weighty.

It isn’t reporter Jerry who comes to the Scott family, ready to carry as much weight as they need. This is Jerry, a brother in Christ, a friend ready to listen, cry, celebrate, mourn, fetch, hug, and hug again. I can pray. I can ask God to wrap sweet Halle in his loving arms. I can ask Him to fill the hearts of all who are hurting with the assurance that Halle is in an amazing place. I can pray that it brings her family comfort.

Perhaps, in the face of incredible tragedy, that’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

I suffer from a very strange affliction that has no medical cure, and yet is nothing that should cause worry for my friends, family, or anyone at the Mayo Clinic.

It’s called FoMO.

Fear of Missing Out.

FoMO means you can’t take a hike through the north Georgia mountains without checking your inbox. There’s no enjoying an afternoon on the front porch swing without pondering the trending hashtags on Twitter. Your wife is in the midst of providing detail of Uncle Henry’s appendectomy, when you hear Facebook calling.

FoMO.

Imagine arriving at work to find your co-workers discussing the wildly popular video of Bigfoot chasing a DUI suspect on Georgia 400. You search your rancid breakroom coffee for a way to contribute. You spent the previous night organizing your collection of flavored dental floss. You’re a newsman who is out of the loop, a virtual sasquatch in a viral video world.

There’s nothing wrong with staying up-to-date, but my affliction goes above and beyond. I work the morning shift, which means I typically get home around 1 or 2 o’clock in the afternoon. The work day is over. Supposedly. Not for my brain. The rest of the world continues to work, and I need to know what the world is doing. I continue to check my emails. I check Twitter. Then my email. Then Twitter. Finally, I force myself to unplug by going on a long walk. Hey, iPhones need exercise, too. Step, step, Facebook. Step, step, email.

All day long, I’m stimulated by a bombardment of information. It’s more powerful than caffeine. I come home with a buzz that’s difficult to calm. I want more. I have to have more.

I’m reading a book written by a man who attempts one year adhering literally to the rules of the Bible. When he gets to the part about setting aside one day of the week for rest, he struggles. He makes his own rules. He decides it’s okay to check email, as long as he’s just reading the topic line. He knows that’s not following the Bible literally, but…he simply can’t help himself. One day away from the stimulation is like leaving a child on a deserted island.

There’s a reason why our brains have an off switch. No one can go full speed every moment of every day. You need to recharge. I’m not sure why I have to work so hard at not working.

I like the Chick-fil-A approach to the problem. The restaurant chain encourages diners to place their iphones in a “coop” during their meal. And leave it there. No Instagram checks. No looking at a text. Imagine. Your attention is free to have an actual conversation with your dining partner. Finish your meal without a single swipe of the screen, and you get a free ice cream.

Me? I’m lactose intolerant. Of course.

My brother owns a cabin that we visit on occasion where there is no cell service. None. It’s in a place called Luck, North Carolina, which isn’t a town as much as it is, well, my brother’s cabin. We spend peaceful days there going on hikes along the nearby Appalachian Trail. We sit by the fire pit and read. Conversations are filled with laughter rather than stress. With a little Luck, you’re forced to unplug.

I need bring a little Luck to my home. Maybe I’ll create a little coop where my urge-to-know can take a timeout for a few hours a day. I know my brain could use the rest.

There. I finished this blog without once pausing to check email or Twitter.